


life makes echoes (if you see them)

by nitro26



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:54:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitro26/pseuds/nitro26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean guns the ignition and they slip into old patterns that spark like something new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life makes echoes (if you see them)

**Author's Note:**

> not mine, not real, entertainment purposes only, etc.  
> title from the rapture  
> 6.12 coda; for missy_useless ♥  
> also on [lj](http://nitro26.livejournal.com/67947.html)

They pull into the motel parking lot at dusk, tires screeching.  
  
The music’s blasting, Dean’s singing along and it sounds awful. All of old Mr. Collins’ scattered remains have been successfully salted and burned, and the worst injury that either one of them is suffering is a small cut on Sam’s forehead, but of far more urgency, his bleeding ears — “Shut up, Sam. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that jealousy’s unattractive?” — which is par for the course on days like these. So Sam would say that so far? Winchesters: 1, World: 0.  
  
It’s still daylight out, the pink sky wide and clear, the evening air summer-sweet. It’s been two days since they left Bobby’s, and they’re still running on the itch under their skin, the fire in their blood, the thirst for a hunt that’s ingrained atom-deep. Dean guns the ignition and they slip into old patterns that spark like something new: engine roaring to life, Sam with a map in the passenger seat, fields and grasslands in the rearview mirror.  
  
Sam’s tired edges burn with a fever that will not rest.  _Gotta fix what I gotta fix_ _,_  he says and Dean will have to look away for a moment then, a year and a half later and it’s  _Sam_  again.  
  
In the shower, Sam scrubs the grave dirt off, watches it slip down into the drain in gritty, brown spirals. He inexplicably thinks of crimson under his nails, the porcelain tub turned the color of blood instead of earth. It’s the way things are these days: every turn is a secret half unraveled, there one moment and slipping away through his fingers the next.  
  
He still doesn’t know the details clearly, the colors shimmer mixed and blurred, like seeing through a heat haze. But Dean’s happy, happier than he’s been in a long time. He’s loud and brash and obnoxious, wildfire-bright.  _The things you don’t know could kill you,_ Dean had warned, and Sam wants to unearth every mystery, every crime, but sometimes he thinks he’ll promise anything if it keeps Dean this way.  
  
Like Sam opening his eyes to a pillow to the head, Dean saying, "You gonna sleep forever, princess? I sure as hell ain’t kissing you to wake you up.” When his clothes are on Sam's bed, his garbage is on the floor, his dirty, rank,  _disgusting_  socks are in the bathroom sink and it really isn't funny at all, but Dean's grin is  _ridiculous_. "Home sweet home, eh, Sammy?" he’ll say, the side of his mouth tipped upwards and there’s a clench somewhere bone-deep, something old and familiar and worn-in. It’s the crunch of gravel under tire, the dashboard signed golden at daybreak, Dean’s stupid smile warming him through. When Sam doesn't know how to say any of that, so he balls up his jacket and throws it at Dean's head instead, pushes the Impala door closed, follows him into the sun.  
  
But Sam will keep remembering, against his own will or otherwise, and one day there will be enough pieces gathered to be put together, for the puzzle to be complete. He’s all too familiar with borrowed time.  
  
The sheets smell like detergent and his hair drips onto the pillow when he climbs into bed, all loose muscles and heavy limbs. A soft breeze is coming in through the open windows, the sound of running water from Dean’s shower lulling everything else away.  
  
“Let’s look at that cut of yours,” says Dean when he comes out of the bathroom in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, his hair wet and spiked up.  
  
“It’s not bad,” says Sam, as Dean comes to sit at the edge of his bed. He turns towards him, tongue heavy and words coming out slow.  
  
“Yeah, I think you’re okay,” Dean’s eyes crinkle around the edges and if there’s something in his expression that’s a little bit too soft, a little bit too laid bare, Sam doesn’t say a word.  
  
A year and a half later and sometimes Sam thinks that Dean will believe anything.  
  
“Hey, it’s not even fully dark yet, Sammy. Getting old on me already?” he says.  
  
“Not before you, jerk,” Sam mumbles, thinks of times like these where it’s too many fingerprints on a crime scene, yellow caution tape around every perimeter. Times like these where he thinks of odds and chances and maybe, just  _maybe_. Times like these where he will promise Dean everything again and again.   
  
Sam will find every landmark that Dean leaves in his wake, all the highways and the byways. Every road that will lead to home.  
  
He closes his eyes, warm and sleepy, tilted towards the dip Dean makes in the bed. It's strange still, days after, the way everything settles: it's the hum of life turned sharper somehow, every whisper, every sigh increased tenfold. The fireflies are glowing against the eventide sky, the crickets are chirping from the tall grass, the cars are rushing by, headlights shining on the street. And Dean’s here, larger than it all: filling in every margin, redefining every line, and something Sam's not awake enough to put a name to still catches him by surprise every time.   
  
He feels the weight of his brother’s palm over his chest for one brief moment before the lights go out; Dean's shaking hands set the world straight.


End file.
